Poetry from a Naive Quill

How I Met your Mother

I can still remember how I met her
On a fine Sunday morning of winter
She was like an apricity
Spiderwebs of ice crowning her bristly golden hair
The tantalizing aroma of freshly baked pie dominating the air
She ran away after I waved at her, somehow not slipping on the dew
That day a task
I gave to my crew
And before the dusk I knew
She was the daughter of church's father
And from that day,
that very evening
I was a religious man.